Lips, a gash, an open wound. I wanted to (wound you). A type of bearing witness, to foreign bodies. An impossible removal from the present moment. For you to bear witness, for me to hold in this – the cup of my hands a puddle of words overflowing, mixed and out of order. I am not as apathetic as I try(wish) to be. No. I am an expansive nebulous of fervor on a perpetual quest to desert the banality of physicality – by the action. I am not just this body. There are movements trying to escape the limitations of these legs, of these fingertips. There are words beating against the cage of this chest attempting desperately to fashion their own sense of corporeality. A song that pulsates in bound lips. A twitch in my ligaments when I try to sit still. I should be able to fly; it’s an itch in my shoulder blades, why my body is always sore – tense with abeyant potential. For now, my curled toes tell me. I fell into your lips in the now. A deferment, interruption, reminder: I am here – in this body. And the only real me was looking back at me from foreign eyes: more naked than I had ever been.